


Miss Alex (And other faces)

by erintoknow



Series: Aria-Rough Drafts [1]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Gender Issues, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Questioning, Run Away, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Transitioning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 20:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18972499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erintoknow/pseuds/erintoknow
Summary: A kid on the run first arrives in the city of Los Diablos, struggling to reinvent themself while keeping a low profile and navigating troublesome GenderFeels.





	1. Miss Alex

**Author's Note:**

> This is the OG version of several chapters of [[Your Weak Young Heart]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21702838/)

**Miss Alex**

April, 2007

Chelsea follows you off the bus into the Los Diablos heat. You shouldn’t have let this go on for so long, it’s dangerous. But despite how nervous it’s making you, Chelsea sees something familiar in you, this animated pile of loose, baggy, clothing. You don’t understand it, but it’s intoxicating.

 

The dull pain of a healing bruise lingers on your arm as she lets go of you. “We made it!” As the bus pulls away, the woman you’ve been sitting next to for the last hour in interstate traffic gives you a small, friendly, smile. Her name is Chelsea Becker, she’s about twenty-nine years old, she used to work at a tech start-up in New Victoria, though whatever she does now she doesn’t want to think about. Similar to you, she’s on this bus looking to get the heck away from San Fransisco.

You know all this, though the two of you have barely spoken to each other since she inexplicably paid your bus fair for you. Not that you needed her to do that, the bus driver had been conveniently zoning out, no one should have noticed you. How did she? Sloppy, dangerous.

 

The woman turns to face you under the shade of the bus stand as a few other stragglers clear off into the streets, “I need to meet-up with my cousin–” A lie? Why? “–in a bit…” You don’t need to look at her face to know she’s nervous, but more for you than herself which is absurd, but you can’t break character, so–

“Th-thanks again,” you mumble, hands in your pockets, the top of your hood drooping into your field of vision. Playing the part of bashful transient isn’t exactly difficult, and that’s what this is, an act. Another persona you’re putting on, your talent. But maybe you’re overdoing it a little.

Chelsea is conflicted for a moment, then grips her purse strap, “I’ve got some time, do you want to grab something to eat?” She hesitates, and then before you can reply, adds, “I can pay for you, don’t worry about it.”

It’s tempting to let this play out, to find out what is about you that she finds so familiar to make her offer such concern for a complete stranger. She seems to think you’re a kid, a run-away? She’s not sure. It’s closer to the truth than you’re comfortable with, either way. You put an embarrassed smile on your face, this has gone on long enough, if she knew the truth she wouldn’t be so quick to have you stick around. “You really don’t need to do that, I’m fine.”

There’s a flare of frustration from Chelsea, “You sure?”

You hold up a conciliatory hand, shrug shoulders. Look grateful but embarrassed. “I’ll be fine, but thank you.”

“Alright, well…” She sticks out a hand to you, “I’m Chelsea Becker.”

“Alex,” You answer, memory automatically calling to mind the name of the cashier who had accidentally given you five fives instead of ones this morning. Awkwardly, you grab Chelsea’s hand, still cold from the Bus AC, and shake it.

Rather than pulling you closer like she had been thinking to, she lets go of your hand. “You got a place to stay, Miss Alex?”

The ‘Miss’ hits you off guard and it takes a moment longer then it should have to get back into your persona. You have to wipe the inexplicable smile that’s threatening to crawl up your face. “Uh yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine.” It’s an obvious lie, and as expected Chelsea frowns, lips pursed. “I’m fine, really.” You insist. You give her another smile, willing her to believe you.

Finally she relents and steps back, “Alright, well, I know it’s a big city, but I hope we run into each other again. You take care of yourself, honey.”

“Yeah,” Now you can let yourself smile, genuine, “You too.” You step away too, and turn to walk down the opposite end of the street from where Chelsea needs to go. In the back of your mind, you can still feel Chelsea through the buzz of everyone else around you, watching you leave, until finally, she too turns and walks away.

 

That whole interaction was a stupid risk on your part. Sure, you gave her someone else’s name and she seemed to even think you were a woman, but now she’s an unnecessary loose end. Someone who might remember your face if anyone came looking. Which they will. You’re sure.

If you were stronger, you’d have ghosted on her right there back on the bus, then waited to take the next one just to be sure. You could still do it even while you’re walking away, just reach out and… push her to forget you at least. It would be easy, but… you hold back, and then she’s lost in the buzz of people, blocks away.

You step out of the flow of people on the sidewalk and lean against the brickwork while you rub some dust out of your eye. Well, now you can at least spare a moment to get your bearings, figure out where you’re going next. Still, it was nice to be seen for once.


	2. Sidney at Practice

**Sidney at Practice**

April, 2007

Hair whips in your face, the fist you sidestep meeting only air and brings the owner with it. You spin and kick out his knee from behind, sending the man down to the cement. He’s dazed as his head hits the ground, but unlike his friend against the dumpster, he’s still awake. You catch your breath, tense, waiting for any sign of movement. The man stays down. He’s waiting for you to drop your guard.

You look back up the alleyway, no one’s coming. You kick the man, first in the stomach then in the face as he tries to roll away. He’s in pain, but still awake so you kick him again, then a fourth time and that does it. There’s a throbbing from your foot and in your knuckles as you lean back against the wall, adrenaline still running high in the sun falls under the rooftops. Just some thugs. That’s all. Not even part of any kind of street gang, just some freelance creeps that thought they saw an easy mark they could chase into a blind ally. Of course, old Johnny here had no idea you’d been aware of him following you for the past two blocks. And how could Tony expect that you would know just where he was hiding behind the dumpster?

You rub your temples, adrenaline rush or no, you can feel a headache coming on. As much as everyone played up Los Diablos’ reputation for lawlessness, actually picking out specific people in the constant buzz of the city is a strain.

You could have just ghosted them. You should have just ghosted them. You need the combat practice though. It’s not enough to lurk around random dojos, using your mental talents to listen in. It is an advantage almost no one else has, but muscle memory is still a thing that needs to be built… and, you needed to know how far you’ve come.

You weren’t made for hand-to-hand combat, no hardened skin, no super strength, or incredible dexterity, as the pains in your bones can testify to. You need every trick you can scrounge up if you want to stay ahead of the Directive.

Even so… at a week, the projects of Los Diablos is officially the longest you’ve stayed in one area since this all began. There’s been no sign of anyone snooping around, no curious thoughts stirred up. Maybe this is the place where you could finally stop running?

“Hey! Hey, what happened here?”

Crap! You spin on your feet to face this new threat, shoulders tense. Stupid! Dumb! Letting your guard down like that.

A man in a plaid vest and trucker’s cap takes a step back from you, raising his hands up in a ‘calm down’ gesture. You forgot to mask your expression, another dumb mistake. “Woah, easy. I heard the shouting and ran as fast as I could.” He gestures at the two men sprawled across the ground. “This your work?” His hand stretched out like that, you can see the scales poking out from under his sleeve. He feels and looks tense. Trying to figure out if you’re a threat. The gears click in your head, the man’s a Boost. Crap. A friend of the two guys you just beat up or…?

You don’t relax, “I was defending myself.”

Trucker cap man gives you an incredulous look. “I can see that. You really did a number on them.”

You glance back, blood is running into Tony’s from his nose and puddle of blood halos Johnny’s head on the hard floor. All at once it becomes obvious the role you ought to play here and you stagger away from the beaten men and fall to the ground on your butt. “Oh.” You say. “Crap,” you add. You pull your legs up to your chest and press your wrists against your forehead.

Trucker cap man’s mood switches from suspicion to concern just as you hoped. You fight to suppress the twinge of panic as he kneels next to you and wraps an arm around your shoulder. Ratty as it may be, you reassure yourself that he can’t feel anything wrong through the heavy fabric of the sweater. “Hey, hey, it’ll be okay.” Trucker cap man makes some more soothing noises until you stop shaking. Wait, when did _that_ start?

Trucker cap man lets go of you, “Look, my name’s Overnight.”

You give him a blank stare. …are you supposed to know who that is?

“…As in, like, Overnight delivery?” He adds.

He’s wondering if you’re okay, so you give him the small smile of recognition he’s looking for to let the conversation move on. “What’s your name, uh…” He looks you up and down, “…kid?” He’s not sure what gender you are, you know that shouldn’t bother you but it does.

You sigh and swallow the frustration, just stick to your role. Your mind drifts to the young woman’s whose judo practice you’ve been shadowing, “…Sidney.”

Overnight nods. “You really did a number on these guys, huh Sidney?” His tone is cautious, he doesn’t want to upset you further, which suites you fine.

“I was scared.” As you say it, you realize it’s not a lie and pull your legs tight against your chest.

“It’ll be okay.” He squeezes your shoulder, the affectation as uncomfortable as it is unwelcome. “I just need to call an ambulance, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He withdraws his arm from around you and steps up and away, pulling a phone out of his pocket.

You stare at the cracks in the cement while Overnight talks on the phone, you’re not listening to him, though you don’t need to in order to understand the gist of what he’s saying. It makes for this weird, overdubbing effect in your head, like a video with the sound and image out of synch or like letting your eyes go out of focus.

Overnight finishes on the phone and returns to you, “They’ll be here in a couple of minutes.” That’s always the promise anyway – he doesn’t say that part out loud.

He’s still wondering how you took out two men on your own but now he’s back in familiar territory: Take care of the girl…. or guy??? he guesses in your case, and keep an eye on the criminals until the ambulance and the police arrive.

You dig your fingers into your arms, suddenly tense again, you know this script and this isn’t one you can afford to follow. “I have to get going.”

Overnight presses a hand down on your shoulder as you try to stand, “Woah, woah, Sidney, it’s okay.” He wants you to go to the hospital, he wants you to talk to the police. He’s even hoping to slip away while you distract them so that _he_ doesn’t have to talk to the police.

“I really need to go, I can’t stay here.” You push his hand away. Crap, why is it always so hot in this hell city? You’re sweating like crazy under these clothes.

Overnight is standing between you and the way out, he’s back to suspicious now. He recognizes the two men on the ground. He doesn’t like them, but he knows them. He doesn’t know you.

Why are you here?

Who _are_ you?

You can’t wait here and you can’t talk to the police. You’ve gotten this far by playing it safe. You won’t risk it. You won’t go back. That’s not a wish, or a goal, that’s a statement of fact. You _won’t_. You feel tense, ready to spring to your feet. Your eyes feel puffy, as if you’d been crying, absurd.

Overnight knows you’re going to run, he stands ready to catch you. He doesn’t understand what your deal is, and thank ~~the director~~ goodness for that. You push off and break left only to fake him out and twist around his right counting on your lighter frame to get you past. He tries to grab your arm, but you ensure you’re not where he thinks you are and then you’ve broken past and into a run down the street.

You can feel him split between staying for the ambulance or chasing after you and it takes him too long to commit to the chase. By the time he does, you’re out of sight, into the night, and he’s left wondering: what the hell just happened?


	3. Lily, Opening Act

**Lilly, Opening Act**

May, 2007

This is stupid.

Sam is fast asleep, sprawled over the bed on the other side of the door. he didn’t even get the first button of his shirt undone before you put him out. As long as you’re quick you should be able to keep him under with enough time to shower, change and get gone before he even realizes anything’s amiss is his already trashed, garbage-strewn apartment. The bruise forming over his eye doesn’t even look that bad, frankly.

A quick shower is better anyhow, less time to think. Less time to look. The hot water hits the burn line along your shoulder and it’s all you can do not to yell at the shock of it. Grind your teeth and hiss out the pain, another grim reminder that there’s only so much running you can possibly do. Your own skin isn’t something you can escape, despite all efforts to the contrary.

Which is why this is needlessly risky.

You towel yourself off, matting the water out of your hair which has gone from hat-hair frizz to soaked-rat. It hasn’t been cut since the start of this little ‘op’ and now the reddish-brown strands almost reach your chin. The risk of hair obscuring your vision makes it a combat hazard, something you have never could gotten away with before. Letting that go feels like a new rebellion, a secret middle finger directed at the closest thing you know as God. The thought brings a smile to your lips.

 

Exiting the bathroom and you see Sam again, utterly clueless, utterly KO’d. A twinge of guilt or pain or both tugs at your gut. Manipulating someone to to let you into their apartment is a little… _brazen_ compared to your usual M.O. But it’s been weeks since you’ve had a proper shower and you couldn’t take it any more. If only you had thought to get new clothes too.

What you couldn’t have anticipated was how _willfully_ Sam played into your manipulations. Worse than that, you still don’t understand how Sam actually read your gross, shapeless, inhuman form as a woman, but the way he reacted to you… You hadn’t felt like that since Chelsea called you ‘Miss’ on your ride into Los Diablos.

Sam and Chelsea are both wrong of course, you _can’t_ be a woman. You’re not sure you even count as a man, not really. You can… encourage the confusion in people all you want. But at the end of the day it’s just another role to be used like any other. It’s an act – one no more real than the rest of you.

So… why does that make you so upset? Why are you digging into your own arm with your fingernails? You absolutely do not feel bad about tricking this man, or, crap, any of the other men or women you’ve pulled a fast one on. Hell, you aren’t even _stealing_ anything this time!!

You need to stop thinking about this. You never thought about this kind of thing before. When would you have? You need to stop thinking about sitting on the bed with Sam, shoving the empty pizza boxes to the floor. You need to stop thinking about him leaning closer to you. You need to stop thinking about the thoughts that were running through his head. You need to stop thinking about how you can never be _that_. You absolutely need to stop thinking about how it’s not enough your very skin ensures you can never truly leave the Farm behind: there’s a wrongness in you down to your very bones.

 

You shut the door on Sam, willing yourself to be confident that ‘Lilly’ will be forgotten or explained away by tomorrow morning. You’ll have to avoid this part of the city for a while, just to be safe.


	4. Bystander 78

**Bystander 78**

May, 2007

“Ma’am- er, sorry, sir? Sir?”

Crap, pay attention!

You’re at the front of the line now at Steak and Shake. You had only come in here to dodge a woman on the street that you thought might have been Cheslea. Has she been following you? You had been trying to sense if that was her out there, but it is impossible to tell. The cashier, -Jessica, apparently- looks at you, irritated at continuing delay. Sheepishly, you order a milkshake and fries and step aside for the next person in line.

Whatever, let the lady have her five seconds of irritation, she’ll forget about you on her own soon enough, just one more faceless schlub in the mob. You run a thumb over the twenty Jessica mistakenly gave you instead of the correct change. It’s been slow going, but you think you’re almost ready to start looking for an actual apartment.

A young man on the other side of the counter smiles at you as he hands you your order, there’s something about the way he’s looking at you, you don’t know how to read it and that makes you nervous so you quickly pocket the cash. Worried, you relax your mental wall a little bit, only to immediately shoot it back up again with ears turning red. You quickly take your order and slump into a chair on the furthest corner table away from the counter and spend the next fifteen minutes pointedly not thinking about what was on the boy’s mind.

 

You’re picking through the bottom-half of the fries, when you can feel a rush of excitement on the street outside, accompanied by screaming. You lift your head in time for a middle-aged man in business attire to stagger into the restaurant and crawl under the table of three very surprised looking college girls. “A fricking man with sharks for hands is robbing Tony’s butcher shop!” The man yells by way of explanation as the three women try to kick him back out from under the table.

The whole building erupts into chaos as people are split between taking shelter and trying to get a better look at the action. No one goes outside though. No one would be that dumb.

You toy with the last fry in your basket. A boost? Well, someone desperate enough to try the ‘hero drug’ anyway. Just because you survive spinning the wheel, it doesn’t guarantee you’ll get a power worth anything. What could you even do with shark hands…? Rob a butcher apparently. Do the shark hands eat too? Part of you wants to get a closer look. You’ve gone out of your way so far to avoid the Enhanced ‘community’ of boosts and mods.

A thud against the glass window draws your attention, and you can see the back of a man in a plaid shirt and a trucker’s cap standing back up. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding, it’s–

“Overnight!!!” A man in the crowd raises his fist at Overnight’s back, “You still owe me five-hundred dollars for that car door you asshole!”

If Overnight hears, he doesn’t respond. Bite marks run up and down both his arms, and it’s enough to make you wince. Whatever kind of scales for skin he has under there, they don’t seem to be doing him much good right now. He runs back into the fight, and out of sight from your angle in the corner. You don’t need to be a mind reader to tell from the crowd that the fight isn’t going in his favor.

 

It feels like a mistake, but you get up to get a better look out the windows yourself, peering over the heads of the three college girls who are excitedly taking pictures of the fight on their flip phones. Not everyone watching knows Overnight, even if they all know _what_ he is: a vigilante, an unlicensed hero. Ever since your encounter with him, you’ve watched for his name in the papers or the net. It’s usually the star players, like the Rangers who get top billing, but Overnight’s name still pops up from time to time in one sentence acknowledgements. Recognition without Fame.

And there’s Overnight now, wrestling with a balding, bare chested man, who, yes does indeed have tiny shark heads for hands, beady little yes and rows of teeth and all. You ought to be unfazed by body-horror like this, but the sight still gives you a morbid, and queasy, curiosity. You’re not sure what kind of hand-to-hand training Overnight has, but the man clearly doesn’t have a counter for an opponent who doesn’t care about blocking as such. You wince in sympathy as a row of teeth rake down Overnight’s forearm, and rub your own arm in sympathy, still sore from your own last impromptu surgery attempt.

 

“Jesus, that guy’s getting chewed up out there.”

“Are the Rangers going to show?”

 

An unnatural scream is wrenched out of Overnight’s mouth as his right arm is turned the wrong direction and he falls to the ground clutching his side. The crowd is worried now, this isn’t how the script is supposed to go. Nausea rocks your stomach as you step towards the door,you try not to think about what you’re doing. A weight presses over you because you know you’re about to do something, really, _really_ , stupid. You don’t even like the guy, but you can’t just–

You’re still a good distance from the door.

You hesitate.

And then:

You sense the change in the crowd before the cheer raises up through everyone and you return to the window, relief flooding through you. Someone’s charged straight into shark-hand-man from behind, knocking him flat on his face into the asphalt. A woman in a tight blue jumpsuit emblematic of an official Ranger stands with her foot on shark-hand-man’s back, smirking triumphantly as her dangerously long braid of hair whips around her.

Maybe you’re just getting caught up in the emotions of the crowd, but you can’t help but feel a little spark of that excitement yourself. This must be Charge, The heart-stopping public face of the Rangers in Los Diablos. You’ve never seen her in action before. The Rangers don’t usually respond to the kind of a minor troubles like ‘angry shark-handed man’ that rank in this part of town.

Curiously when you reach out with your mind to get a better sense of the action, you can’t quite find her.On the ground, one of shark-hand-man’s hands move, mouth grasping for Charge’s braid, distracting you from your line of thought. Does she see it? You want to reach out, shout something, a warning. Mercifully, the Ranger woman notices in time, without any help from you. She clenches a fist, and white sparks shoot out as she rears back her arm. An open palm slams down on shark-hand-man’s back and he jerks violently for a moment as electricity courses through him. It doesn’t take five seconds before the man is out of it, and the ranger woman pantomimes wiping sweat off her brow while the crowd cheers.

 

Hoo boy, what a show-off.

 

You stay in the back, out of sight from the street and the police and don’t leave the restaurant until Charge has left the scene. The crowd’s relief and gratitude for a hero’s arrival mixes with your own feelings until you aren’t sure which are which.


	5. Melissa

**Melissa**

June, 2007

You snap the case shut and hold down the power button until the the blinking lights, visible through the plastic mesh, indicate the boot sequence has started. You had to practically gut the whole thing and piece it back together with spare parts, but you think you’ve finally got this computer working again. Or….?

“Hey, Lee–“ You crane your head back over your shoulder to where you know Lee is totaling last month’s expenses.

You hear a heavy sigh. You’re being hired for your willingness to work, not for conversation. That’s part of why you picked him; the man doesn’t give even a first thought to the cover story you had spun for him.“What is it, Melissa?”

The vibe from Lee is telling you to be quiet, but something compels you on regardless. “Is it still a repair job if you have to replace everything inside the case? Does that still count as the same machine?”

“You kept the original hard drive, right?”

You hesitate, running through the checklist in your head. “Y-yeah, that’s still there, I guess. That still worked.”

Lee puts the spreadsheet down on the counter. “Then that’s close enough.” He looks at you, peering over his glasses, sizing you up. “You done?”

You make yourself meet his gaze, Melissa is supposed to be confident in their work. “It was cake,” you pull a monitor to you, connecting it to the case. “Just checking it now.”

“Move over, I’ll see for myself.” You obediently shift to the next chair over, careful to avoid tipping the plastic bins of silicone chips and wires scattered haphazardly on the floor. Lee takes your seat and stares intently at the computer monitor, hands on the keyboard. You don’t look at the screen yourself, sensitive to any possible change in Lee’s mood. The man’s so placid, it makes him hard to read in more ways than one.

Finally you detect a sense of satisfaction from Lee and he pushes away from the desk, turning the computer off. “Good enough. Get me a list of the parts you used so I can bill the customer.”

You lean over from where you’re sitting, tap a sheet of paper on the table between you to draw his attention to it. “Right here.”

He grabs it and gets up, “Good,” he says, returning to the counter, while reading it over. He pulls open a drawer, and after a minute pulls out a small wad of dollar bills. You meet him at the other side of counter as he puts it down in front of you. “Pay for the day, good work.” You pick up the money, counting it. It’s nothing extravagant, but there’s still something novel about the whole process to you. “Come back tomorrow, Mel, I’ve got another project you can do. Going to close up.” He nods, as if that ends the conversation and waves you out of the store and back on the street.

It had been so, _so_ , tempting to have the old man accidentally include a ‘bonus’ with your pay but you figure you’ll have Melissa come by Lee’s repair shop a couple more times before you clean him out. It’s been so long since you’ve messed with electronics. You had forgotten how meditative it could be.

 

Despite your better judgement, you find yourself at Steak and Shake again that night. You usually want to avoid hitting the same place more then once, but…. chocolate milkshakes are a hard thing to say no to. As you walk in, you find there’s an argument in-progress behind the counter.

“It’s always your shift Jessica!”

“Damnit Ronnie, I don’t fucking know what you’re talking about!”

You wince as the argument escalates, both parties oblivious to you standing in the door way. You should just- you should just turn and leave now.

“You’re fired! Get out of here, and be grateful if I don’t call the police.”

Jessica tears off her apron, throwing it on the floor and runs out of the store, pushing past you, face red, hands curled into fists.

The man, Ronnie, finally notices you, gesturing you to the counter, a pleasant mask over the anger boiling off of him. You hesitantly step up to the counter, and against your better judgement you ask “What was that all about?” As if you didn’t already know.

Ronnie grimaces, “Another dumb bitch who thinks she can skim from the till on _my_ watch.”

 

“Oh.” You say.

 

“Nevermind that, what can I get you, my man?”

When you get back your change, it’s accurate.


	6. Vigilante at 5AM

**Vigilante at 5AM**

August, 2007

The sun barely has a chance to shine before trouble starts. You always make sure you’re out of the building you’ve been squatting in before the usual suspects start waking up. This is how you end up on the street in time to see a man with a mechanical arm lift up another, fatter man by the neck and tosses him down to the ground. “You’re not getting anything else out of me this time JARED!”

You look around, there’s barely anyone else out on the street at this hour; too late for nare-do-wells, to early for do-gooders. Jared is gibbering nonsense apologies, then cries out as Metal Arm guy brings his foot down on the man’s ribcage. There’s no way Jared stays in one piece before the police arrive, someone needs to act.

With a deepening dread in your stomach, you realize that someone is you moments before your arm collides with Metal Arm’s back, pushing him off balance. You raise your leg to kick out his knees but he turns faster than you expected and grabs you, metal fingers biting into your shoulder. “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” is bellowed into your ear. You grit your teeth and uppercut his jaw with your free arm, then bring a knee to his stomach and Metal Arm wheezes for air, letting go.

You both take a step back, sizing the other up. “You want some of this, bitch?” Metal Arm postures at you, he’s still steaming mad, but now there’s a tinge of fear. Just like those guys in the alley, he’s scared. Of you.

The realization sends a rush of adrenaline though you and you can’t stop the small smile forming on your face. Good. He should be.

Metal Arm rushes you and you sidestep him. You take the chance to strike at the back of his neck but he’s too tall for it and his shoulders absorb the brunt of the impact. Instead, he’s able to grab your arm. He yanks you off your feet causing you to yell in surprise, the air forced from your lungs you are flung against the wall. You manage to keep your head enough to mentally nudge his follow-up punch so it goes wide. And good thing you did because dust and brickwork shower you as his metal fist gets lodged in the wall next to your head. Now it’s your turn to grab an arm and pull. Just like you hoped, this prosthetic is a cheap enough model that you can feel Metal Arm guy’s alarm turn to panic as things inside start to go pop that _really_ shouldn’t.

“This is none of your fucking business you crazy bitch!” Metal Arm hisses. It’s a second too late when you remember, oh wait, Metal Arm has _two_ hands, and then your head is ringing. Metal Arm takes the moment to work his arm free, and… there! You kick the man between the legs, hard, and like pressing a button the man vomits all over the front of your sweater.

“Give–” you gasp for breath, “give up yet?”

He doesn’t respond, so you kick him again and he falls over and away from you.

You pull yourself to your feet and stare at Metal Arm guy, he’s writhing on the ground clutching at his privates. You can feel his panic and in the moment, your own fear and panic riding high, it’s a struggle to block his out. You bring your foot down on him, then again, then ag-

“Alex? Alex it’s over! He’s done! Alex!”

You look up to see the woman standing a few feet away in the eve of an apartment block, she looks back at you with a combination of concern and fear. You recognize her, it’s the woman from the bus, Chelsea. She gestures at you to get over there.

“Come on missy, let’s get you off the street before the cops show up.”


	7. Miss Alex, again

**Miss Alex, again**

August, 2007

The sleeve of your vomit-covered sweater sticks out from under the lid of the trash can. You watch it intently from your seat on the faux suede couch while the flash of red and blue lights pierces through the blinds behind you and reflect off the peeling-white walls. With only your full-sleeve black shirt and cargo pants you feel more exposed then you ever have in the months since you first came to Los Diablos.

It’s a one-room apartment and you can see Chelsea Becker in the kitchenette fussing with a pot of hot water. Three floors down, on the street, paramedics are loading Jared and Metal Arm guy into the back of an ambulance. The officer charged with collecting statements from witnesses is hanging around behind a corner eating a donut. This apartment is practically down the block from where you’ve been squatting. All the paranoia you’ve tried to let go has come roaring back. Why did you follow her here?

“Well Miss Alex, do you prefer coffee or tea?” Chelsea calls from the countertop.

Is this supposed to be test? An opportunity to drug you? “Water is fine,” you counter.

Chelsea shrugs. “Suit yourself.” Not even her thoughts give anything away. This woman is dangerous. After a few more minutes of fussing she fills a glass of water from the sink, putting it down on the coffee table in front of you before sitting down on the other end of the couch, a mug of coffee clutched with both hands. “So how’s city life treating you?”

The older woman is watching your face intently, which does nothing to help your nerves, so you go back to watching the trash can. “It’s fine.”

Chelsea takes a sip of coffee.

You know what’s she’s doing.

She’s waiting you out.

Well it’s not going to work.

To your immense satisfaction, Chelsea blinks first. “You know,” she takes another sip from her mug, “when I first ran away from home, I must have been sixteen years old.” You watch her from the corner of your eye, where is this going? “I read the internet, all these damn wikis, I had this whole plan worked out.” She stops, sips her coffee, when she speaks again her voice is light, like it’s a joke. “I don’t think I made it a week before police caught me and brought me back. I was stuck living out under a bridge after I lost my bullet train ticket.” Chelsea laughs, as if she wants it to be funny.

Is she trying to build a sense of camaraderie? Lure you into a false sense of security?

“The second time though…” she grins, to herself more than you, “well, you could say I’m still running.”

If she’s lying, then she’s an unreasonably good actor, but is this woman really going to just… tell her life story at you? What was the deal with her on the bus? Why does she just happen to be living in the same place you are? Has she been following you? Is she Special Directive? Why are they doing this instead of just dragging you back? You’re dying to just burrow into her head and finally have some answers.

“You know,” Chelsea glances back at the window, “that was a very brave thing you did out there. Absolutely nuts, but brave.” She must be switching topics since you aren’t rising to the bait. “Did you know either of those guys…?” What is she fishing for?

“No.”

“Really?” Genuine relief, and then… why does she feel guilty?

You turn to look at her, “Why?”

Now it’s her turn to avoid the other’s gaze, staring into her coffee mug. “Well… no– no, don’t worry about it.” She shakes her head and raises the mug to take another sip. Amid everything else there’s one sentiment on her mind that is plain as day to you; she wishes you hadn’t saved Jared? Is this part of some act? Another test? You look at the window, briefly consider the odds of jumping out a third story window. Don’t like the conclusion.

After what seems like an appropriate length of silence, you go on the attack with “Are you doing okay?”

Chelsea laughs, it’s short and forced. “Oh, you know. Living the dream in a city of devils. Turns out the company that hired me to come here got bought out and shuttered in the span of a bus trip.” She shrugs, “But you know Miss Alex, there’s always work for a girl with a keyboard.”

“It’s hard on your own,” you offer.

“Yeah.”

“Why…” You hesitate, struggling to put the words in order, and at the last second veer into a slightly less impossible question, “why do you keep calling me ‘miss’?”

Chelsea looks at you, and then slowly her whole face turns beet red in genuine embarrassment. “Oh, oh geez honey, I’m sorry. I just sort of assumed.”

“It’s – it’s fine?” You trace a too familiar pattern in your leg with your finger, not looking at Chelsea. “I think I like it?” Any moment now a team of black suited operatives with psy-dampeners is going to bust through that door. You’re certain of it. You expect they’ll have two breach the door while the other two break in through the window. And then there would be a fifth as sentential on the roof across from the window. You know, just in case.

You can tell the woman next to you is processing her own cavalcade of emotions but you’re a little too caught up in your own inner turmoil to be getting a solid grasp on hers too. So it comes as something of a shock when her hand reaches out to grab yours, fingers curling under your palm.

You freeze.

It’s like you’ve been nailed to the couch.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Her voice is quiet, almost like a whisper.

“No.” You answer, a little too quickly.

Chelsea lets go of your hand, pulling back to her side of the couch. You almost wish she hadn’t. “That’s okay too,” she says.

The two of you sit there in silence. Slowly you reach out and take the glass of water from the table. Beads of condensation pool against the skin of your fingers. You take a sip, which turns into a bigger sip, which turns into you gulping down half a glass, and when you put the cup down you have to gasp for air.

“Alex isn’t even my name.” You say.

“Do you like it?”

You have to think about this. “Not really.”

Chelsea cracks a smile. “I can’t say I was too attached to my first couple of names either. Names are powerful things.” Your skepticism must be evident on your face, because she continues, “they are! You should pick one for yourself! Something with meaning for you. You don’t even have to tell anyone, or only tell the people closest to you, or whatever you want to do. It’s your _name_ and no one can take that from you.”

“And how many people have you told your name?” You meant it as a smart-aleck retort but the expression on Chelsea’s face gives you pause.

“Ah. One person, actually.”

You have to think about this.

Instead of pressing further you ask “why did you pick Chelsea?”

Chelsea shrugs, still radiating embarrassment. “Why did you originally pick Alex?”

“I stole twenty-five bucks from her.”

To your satisfaction, that gets a shock from Chelsea. “That’s not quite the answer I expected.” You look at her, daring her to say something about it. You win. She looks away first. “‘Chelsea’ is supposed to mean something like, ‘chalk wharf’, I guess? I was set on writing my own life. Crush down everything from before and make something new out of it.” She picks up her coffee mug and drains the rest of it.

When she puts the mug back down you ask, “Is that even possible?”

“Is what possible?”

“Reinventing yourself like that.” You finger is back to tracing patterns in your leg.

That gets some nervous laughter from Chelsea. “Well, I kind of have to believe it is, or I’m in big trouble. I banked my name on it and everything after all.”

You feel your hands clench around your knees. “I want to believe it is too.”


	8. Ariadne

**Ariadne**

April, 2009

You rest your hands on your hips as you watch the last of the last of Mad Olly’s Clown Possee get loaded into the police van. It’s all you can do to not make a crack about clown cars.

“Man, those clowns really know how to pack it in, huh Sidestep?” The woman standing next to you elbows you in the stomach and cackles like she’s made the most hilarious joke. You sigh. The papers always made Charge sound so… serious and dignified. Well, when they weren’t breathlessly speculating on who her latest boyfriend was. Not that you ever waste time reading that kind of tripe.

You gesture at the park around you, littered with clown debris. “Looking to make a career change old lady? I hear a bunch of vacancies in clown school just opened up.”

Charge crosses her arms, with a harrumph. “Old lady she says. And did you pass third grade yet?”

“Did you?”

Charge smirks and slaps you on the back. Or well, tries to. You step out of the way just in time.

Invisible under your mask is a little self-satisfied smile. “Too slow that time, Charge.”

“Doesn’t count, you’re cheating.” Charge protests, knowing perfectly well that you both know your mind reading talents don’t work on her. She glances at you from the corner of her eye. You brace yourself, here we go again. “And you know you can just call me Julia, right?”

“That’s awfully informal, don’t you think, _Ortega_?” You love working with the Rangers, but it’s a love like a moth loves fire. And as much as you keep setting up your barriers, Ortega keeps insisting on filling in the firebreaks.

“How many times have you saved my butt now? It’s got to be over twenty. I think you’ve earned a little informality.” One of the police officers hands Ortega a clipboard with forms on in. She winces and her shoulders slump.

“If you’re hoping I’ll save you from paperwork, then I think this is my queue to get scarce.” You step away only for Ortega’s hand to catch your arm.

“You should really stick around, I’m making Anathema watch _Friends_ for the first time tonight. It’s gonna be a real hoot.”

You hesitate, “The show by that Whedon guy?”

Ortega’s face lights up. “Yeah, that one!”

“Didn’t that get canceled after half a season?”

“Only because the world isn’t ready for genius.”

You feel yourself wavering. Actual copies of the show are exceedingly rare, how did Ortega get her hands on it?

“Com’on, consider it?” Ortega pleads. “I won’t even make you get out of the damn suit.”

You turn your head sharply to look at her, “What does that mean?”

Ortega stands her ground, gesturing with the clipboard for emphasis. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out of that get-up once. Hell, Sidestep, I don’t even know your name. Like, your real actual name? Do you have even one?”

Now it’s your turn to get defensive, arms crossed. “I have a name!” You protest.

“Oh _do_ you?” Ortega asks, hands on her hips, goading you on with a smile.

“It’s…” Your voice falters, that old familiar apprehension you had hoped having a costume would banish creeping back in.

When you fail to finish your sentence Ortega just sighs. “Look, I’m sorry. We’re just co-workers, I know, I know. Well… not even that technically. I just wanted to include you.”

That full face-mask for your costume was one of your better decisions but you still have to force out the words. “It’s Ariadne.”

Ortega tilts her head. “What?”

“Ariadne. My name is Ariadne Becker.”

“Ari-ad-knee…” Repeats Ortega, sounding out your name. She smiles, “It’s a good sound. So! Does that mean you’re coming tonight, Ari?”


End file.
